


Act II: Memories

by KitiaraM



Series: Kaja Hawke [8]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitiaraM/pseuds/KitiaraM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you can't remember, how do you know you want to remember? Some just want to forget...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act II: Memories

It's been a really _really_ long day. Seems to be the usual, lately. She's still worried about Fenris, about the way he just left them out there. It's not like him; despite his _problems_ , he's usually dependable. He did just kill one of his tormenters from his previous life; shouldn't he be gloating? No, of course not; he has to go and be even _more_ broody. 

She sighs, knowing she's being unfair. Of course she doesn't understand; how could she? She can't even imagine the horrors he's lived through. The mere fact that he's even able to function on his own after living as a slave for so long is incredible, much less that he is hardly more dysfunctional than some of her other friends. Sometimes, though, she gets so very tired of being verbally assaulted for the horrible crime of always being free. Free, what a laugh. 

Her ruminations are interrupted before they can travel those dark paths, however, as she sees him waiting for her. And he's, apologizing? Fenris?

He's hurting, she can see it so plainly, and she can't help but try to make it better, let him know that he does have friends that care about him. It's not all about hate and twisted magic and control -- sometimes his raving just drives her absolutely crazy, but she tries to be understanding and kind, instead of spouting her usual trademark snarky quip (which of course will just make him give her that disgustingly superior look and _you don't understand_ that makes her want to strangle him). He's never understood that sometimes, too many times, you have to laugh so that you don't cry. 

And there he goes again, all _they did this to me_ and _I can't take it_ and yes, there it is, _you don't understand_ , before it's just all too much and his shoulders slump in defeat as he turns to leave, and she just wants to _stop_ the damned pain (hers or his, she wonders). She reaches out to him, a touch of skin, of warmth, _you don't have to go, it's ok, I understand_.

The flare of lyrium doesn't have time to startle her before he's on her, hands gripping her arms hard enough to hurt, the shock as he jolts her back against the wall almost more disorienting than the way he's looking at her, all eyes and _need_ enough to take her breath away. The emptiness seems to be pushed away a little at that look, a spot of heat in the chill. But he's hesitating, he's going to leave and she can't let that happen; she needs to _feel_ again, she can't go on without _some_ thing and she's kissing him, feeling his heat and want, as intense as her own, and _oh Maker, it's not the same but maybe, maybe it can be enough--_.

It's almost enough. She can lose herself for a time, firmly shutting off memories, pretending. 

Waking up is... a nightmare, the same as always. Again she reaches, still half-asleep, for someone who isn't there, then the cold realization splashes through her, bringing her straight up in bed.

No, he's still there, but something in the way he's not looking at her sends a chill down her spine. She doesn't want to hear this, doesn't want to hear the excuses, the _'it's not you, it's me'_. Of course it was her. She had driven _him_ away, all those months ago; called him names and derided him viciously, all to salve her own ego. She had denied what she felt, her fear more important than anything else. Her own, stupid fears, making her ignore the way his touch sent a bolt of heat through her, or the way his smile made her heart turn over in her chest. 

And now she never would feel that again. All she'd wanted was to forget, and every word Fenris utters seems like an accusation. Oh yes, she knows how memories hurt. She'd give anything to forget hers and she hates him for mourning the loss of his.

She's barely aware of the door shutting softly as Fenris leaves. It's too much. She echoes his words; is it too much to ask to be happy, just for a little while? She can't remember the last time she was just uncomplicatedly _happy_. She would give anything to go back to those two days, when she didn't remember anything about _duty_ , and _responsibility_ , and--

With a muffled scream she throws her pillow across the room. Then the other one. The covers and sheets follow rapidly, although they don't make it to the wall as the pillows did. There's an odd noise in the room and she has the mattress half off the bed frame before she realizes it's coming from her own throat. It should disturb her; it's indescribably mad-sounding, but somehow she can't stop it. 

The mattress catches a corner on a bedpost and she yanks savagely. All she has to do is back it up and reposition it, but such complexity of thought is beyond her at the moment. 

"Mother... fucking... sonuva... BITCH!" she spits out ferociously. The mattress doesn't give, the bedpost doesn't give, but something in her does. A puppet with cut strings, she collapses, even now trying to hide her sobs in the wreckage she's made. It takes far too long to cry herself to sleep.

Morning comes. It always does, whether we will it or no. She disentangles herself from the mess, straightens the bed, and dresses. She has responsibilities that won't wait on her emotions. They never do.


End file.
